


Battle Scars

by citrinesunset



Category: Inception
Genre: Community: i_reversebang, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 06:36:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrinesunset/pseuds/citrinesunset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen years after the Fischer job, Eames is living a quiet life far from his old work and colleagues. One day, Phillipa Cobb shows up looking for someone to teach her about dream sharing. But what she wants, and why Eames finds himself drawn to her, isn't so simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battle Scars

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [](http://i-reversebang.livejournal.com/profile)[**i_reversebang**](http://i-reversebang.livejournal.com/), for [](http://nessismore.livejournal.com/profile)[**nessismore**](http://nessismore.livejournal.com/)'s [piece featuring Eames and Phillipa Cobb](http://i.imgur.com/ikT2K.jpg).
> 
> Thank you to [](http://chromonym.livejournal.com/profile)[**chromonym**](http://chromonym.livejournal.com/) and [](http://lo_saay.livejournal.com/profile)[**lo_saay**](http://lo_saay.livejournal.com/) for betaing, and for being very patient with me as I worked to finish this.
> 
> Fic contains some sex, as well as mentions and implications of violence, abuse, and suicide.

When Eames comes into the bar, Miguel tells him a young woman was in looking for him, just a little while ago. He hands Eames a note along with his mail, but the paper is blank except for a phone number.

"Did she say what she wanted?" Eames asks.

"She said she had to go back to the mainland," Miguel tells him. "But she said she wants to talk to you."

Miguel goes back to his work. Just like he doesn't ask why Eames insists on using the bar as a post office, and he doesn't ask too many questions about the people Eames does the occasional business with.

Eames turns the note over in his hand, hoping to find a name or message on the other side. He doesn't find one, but he assumes the girl, whoever she is, wants him to make an ID for her. He still does a little work from time to time, but he sticks to the sort of forgery that requires ink and printers more than imagination. These days, what people want from him isn't as interesting as why they want it.

He puts the note in his pocket, and tells himself he'll decide later if he calls the girl or not.

He orders a beer because he owes it to Miguel for holding his mail for him. But also, it's nice to be out of the sun, and to sit at the bar and rest his leg. He still needs to buy food before he can go home.

Once his glass is empty, he gets up and leaves. The sun blinds him when he steps outside, and it's uncharacteristically hot for June, but it's nice to be out of the house. Even though he's only been retired for three years, he can already feel himself rotting from inactivity. He used to think his work would kill him, but now he suspects it'll be the leisure that does it.

An hour later, he's driving his jeep down the dusty road to his house with two paper bags full of food in the back. When he parks, it's hard for him to extend his left leg when he gets out. Today isn't a good day.

On good days, sometimes he's able to walk to town instead of drive, and his limp doesn't bother him. It's like a battle scar. But today, he aches too much and it just makes him feel beat-up.

His place is a sprawling, single-story stucco house overlooking the beach. When he got it, it didn't have working plumbing or electricity and the roof needed fixing. But aside from that, he's left it like it was. Like much of the island, it's old and looks like it's weathered too many storms. He almost trips on the broken tile in the entryway, but things like this remind him of his own scars: they're traces of age that Eames believes in living with.

Once inside, he thumbs through his mail. He doesn't get much of it these days, so it's something of a novelty. He gets stuff forwarded to him from all over the world, from other bars and businesses that have agreed to let him use their addresses as his own. He pauses on envelope hand-addressed in a handwriting he thinks he recognizes. The postmark is from the U.S., which is highly irregular.

He tears it open with his fingers, partly shredding the envelope in the process. The letter inside is short and typed.

_Eames,_

_This is the most recent address I have for you. I hope you're well._

_I need to know if you've spoken to someone. Call me at your earliest convenience._

_Arthur_

There's a phone number at the bottom. Another number Eames has no intention of calling right away.

It's getting dark now, but looking outside, he can see the setting sun reflecting off the ocean. He spends the rest of the evening in bed, reading and listening to the sound of the waves through the open window.

 

* * *

 

The next afternoon, he goes down to the docks and takes his boat out for a while.

The sailboat was never meant to be a long-term hobby. He bought it broken and cheap for the pleasure of fixing.

But it turns out he likes the water. He likes to take a picnic basket with him and make an afternoon of it. He steers clear of the fishing boats, but he can still hear the men onboard yelling and working.

Today, after about an hour, clouds block the sun and the wind turns ominous, rocking Eames' small boat. He knows the climate out here well enough to know when to head back to the dock.

From the docks, Eames can just make out his house at the top of a hill. He starts to trek up the path but freezes. Someone is standing by his front door. He starts walking again, more quickly now.

He doesn't get many visitors, and when he does, part of him is always ready for a confrontation. He's made more than a few enemies in his life. But as he gets closer, he realizes he doesn't recognize the young woman standing by the front door, and she looks too young to have much history with him. He pegs her as being in her early twenties.

The wind has picked up, and the girl's long, sandy hair blows over her face, obscuring it. Her flower-patterned skirt whips around her legs. When Eames comes up the path, she looks in his direction and tries to brush her hair out of her face.

"Hello," Eames says. "Can I help you?"

She raises her voice above the growing wind. "Are you Mr. Eames?"

"Are you the one who was looking for me at the bar yesterday?"

"It was the only address I could find for you."

He puts his hands in his pockets and strides closer. "And how did you find this place?"

She smiles. "I just asked around a little more."

He nods. It's plausible enough, and he doesn't fool himself into thinking he's _that_ well-hidden here.

"What did you want, then?"

Her smile fades. The wind almost drowns out her voice as she says, "My name is Phillipa Cobb. You used to know my father."

 

* * *

 

He ushers her inside, away from the wind and the greying skies. Eames blinks away the dirt that's blown into his eyes and takes a long look at the girl in the dim light of the living room.

Now that he knows who she is, he sees the resemblance to Cobb. Eames is good with faces; he never forgets one.

He's never met Phillipa before, though, and the last time he saw Cobb, she would have been only five or six. It's been fifteen years.

Phillipa starts to walk around the living room, taking everything in. Her hair is messy from the wind; she runs a hand through it, but quickly gives up on fixing it. She's wearing sandals, and her toes are covered in dust and sand. She looks at the paintings on the walls first, pausing briefly by each one to study it.

"These are nice. Are they all originals?"

Eames murmurs an affirmative. He doesn't mention that a couple of them are his own work.

She moves on to the bookcase in the corner, and reaches to pick up an old compass that sits on one of the shelves.

"Are you always this inquisitive when you're in other people's homes?" he asks with a smile.

She looks at him and lowers her hand. She studies his face like she's trying to tell if he actually finds her curiosity intrusive. She doesn't look ashamed.

"I've never been anywhere like this before. I grew up in the suburbs and the city. I don't know if I've even been on an island."

"Is your father with you?" Eames asks.

She shakes her head. "He doesn't know I'm here."

"And why _are_ are you here?"

Outside the window, the palm trees sway wildly. Phillipa glances at them, and then turns to Eames.

"You used to work with my dad, didn't you?"

"A few times. Not in years."

"Did you know my mother?"

"I met her."

She moves to the window now, and peers out. "It looks like there's going to be a storm."

"You're staying on the mainland?"

She nods.

"The ferry won't run again today. You'll have to stay on the island 'til morning."

"Is there a place I can stay?"

"In town. I can drive you. You haven't answered my question yet. About why you're here."

She smiles a little. "I had a whole speech worked out in my head. I wanted to learn from you."

"Mm. And what can a retired man like me teach you?"

"I want to learn about dream sharing. I met this guy at school who said he'd teach me, but he didn't know anything. He didn't even have a PASIV. I need someone who really knows what they're doing."

Eames shifts his weight and leans against the wall. Crossing his arms, he says, "I'm sure you know Arthur?"

She rolls her eyes. "Of course I know Arthur."

"Then talk to him."

"What makes you think I haven't?"

Fair point. Eames shouldn't have assumed that flying overseas was a first option. Hell, he's already taken for granted that talking to Cobb himself isn't an option at all.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

 

* * *

 

He offers to make them some tea. The temperature has dropped, and suddenly it's too cool to keep the window open. Eames closes it, and just in time. It starts to rain a minute later.

They take the tea into the living room, which is actually an extension of the kitchen and dining room. Phillipa sits on a chaise lounge covered in wine-colored velvet, and tugs her skirt over her knees.

"I have a heater," he says. "I can bring it in."

She shakes her head. "The tea's fine."

Eames sits in a chair across from her. "The weather's nice, here, as a rule, but the storms can be unpredictable." He takes a sip of his tea, which proves to still be too hot. "How old are you? Twenty?"

"Yep."

"And what do you do? You mentioned school?"

"I thought I was going to ask you questions." But then she says, "I'm studying chemistry."

Eames raises an eyebrow. "A field relevant to your interests."

"I know." She sounds a little irritable, like he's insulting her intelligence. "It's already occurred to me. Of course, Arthur warned me about the dangers."

"Arthur will do that."

"I know it's illegal now."

"If you're worried about the law, it's not illegal everywhere."

"I know that, too."

The UK was one of the first places to start controlling the production and use of Somnacin, and Eames tells himself that is why he hasn't been back to England in years. These days, the US isn't any better. But there are still plenty of places that are more lax.

"I know all about shared dreaming in theory," she says, "but I want to try it. I want to actually go in a dream."

"You've never done it before?"

She shakes her head. "I don't have a PASIV."

"And you want me to teach you." He leans back and sighs. He rests his teacup on his leg, and the heat feels good on his knee. "Look, love, I may be retired, but that doesn't mean I have the time or interest to give lessons to anyone who wants them. I'm not a teacher."

"I'll pay you. I have cash."

He looks at her skeptically, and she continues: "I'll pay you, or I'll go to a dream den and pay them."

Eames winces and clicks his tongue. "Oh, no, you don't want to do that."

He has nothing against dream dens in principle, but high standards can be hard to come by, and beginners don't always know what to look for.

"I know," she says again.

"You know a lot for a girl who wants my help."

She takes a sip of her tea and looks him in the eye. "I've had to find out a lot of stuff for myself. I'm used to it. Like my mother. How much do you know about what happened to her?"

Eames cocks his head. "Thought you were here to talk about dreaming. Not your parents."

"Yeah, well, I've found it's hard to talk about one of those topics without running into the other. Are you going to help me or not?"

Eames gives her a vague nod. He doesn't say anything about whether he'll accept her money.

 

* * *

 

He offers her dinner in hopes that the weather will clear up some while they eat. But after they're done, the rain is still pounding on the roof and there's no putting off the topic anymore.

"If you want, we can try to drive into town so you can get a room. Or, you can stay here for the night. Your choice."

"Do you have a place for me to sleep?"

"If the living room is all right, sure."

"Okay, thanks."

Eames is rinsing the dishes in the sink. Looking at her over his shoulder, he says, "You know, if you're going to go into this business, you need to be careful about trusting people."

"But if you're going to teach me, don't I have to trust you?"

He huffs and smiles. "I suppose. I'll get you a blanket and pillow."

 

* * *

 

Once he believes Phillipa is asleep, Eames retrieves Arthur's recent letter and goes into the bedroom. He closes the door and pulls out his mobile.

Arthur answers on the second ring. "Hello?"

Arthur still sounds like Arthur, even if he's older.

"I got your letter."

"Eames. That was quick. I'm surprised you actually called."

Eames doesn't tell him that he hadn't been planning to.

"You said you wanted to know if I'd heard from someone."

"Yes," Arthur says, anticipation creeping into his voice. "Have you?"

Eames chuckles and shakes his head. "You're being a bit vague about who you mean, aren't you? But it's Phillipa Cobb, isn't it?"

The pause on the other end tells him he's right.

Finally, Arthur says, "So you have heard from her?"

"Yes."

"What did she say to you?"

"Now, I don't know if that's any of your business."

"She's been _missing_ ," Arthur says with an edge to his voice. "For almost a week. If I didn't have a good idea of what she's up to...."

Eames is almost surprised by this, but he quickly realizes he shouldn't be. Still, the thought of hiding a missing person changes things a little. "She's safe. I've seen her."

"Wait a second, she's _there_?"

"I'm just telling you I've seen her. Besides, she's a grown woman. If she wants to disappear, there's not much anyone can do about it. Does Cobb have you looking for her?"

"Cobb doesn't know about it yet. I'm hoping to find out exactly what she's doing and convince her to come back before he does."

Eames raises his eyebrows and casts a look in the direction of the living room. "Oh? I'm sure he'll be thrilled."

There's another heavy pause, and Arthur says, "Things are very...complicated between them. Phillipa's been staying with me a lot, lately."

"Staying with you in...." Eames looks at the postmark on the envelope, which he still has in his hand. "Seattle?"

"I have a place here. She was staying until school starts up again."

"What happened?"

Arthur hesitates. "She copied my contact lists and took some cash out of my safe. Then she disappeared."

Eames stifles a laugh. "How did she get into your safe?"

"Is that relevant?" Arthur snaps. "What does she want from you?"

"I'm sure you already know. You could have just taught her yourself, you know."

"Cobb doesn't want her to be exposed to it."

"Well, she's an adult now. Guess it's her choice."

Arthur sighs. "Look, just make her come home."

"Or what, exactly?"

"I'll come down there and get her."

"That would be kidnapping."

"If that's what it takes...."

"You're not a kidnapper, Arthur. I'll talk to her, but no promises. If she wants to disappear, that's her right. Lord knows I've disappeared enough in my life."

When he hangs up, he can tell Arthur isn't satisfied. But there's nothing more Eames can do, even if he wanted to. As it is, he's not inclined to encourage Phillipa to go home. If she goes back to the States, it shouldn't be to placate anyone.

When he wakes in the morning, Phillipa is already up. Her dress is wrinkled from sleeping in it, but she looks like she's been up for a while. She's sitting on the floor, looking at a book from the shelf in the living room.

"There you are," Eames says. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"If you're going to make some, sure. Then maybe we can talk about how we're going to do this." She idly flips through the pages.

Eames walks to the kitchen. Behind him, Phillipa says, "And you're right, you know. I'm allowed to disappear."

Eames freezes with his hand on the refrigerator door. "Lesson one: if you're going to listen to people while they're on the phone, don't let them know."

"Does that have to do with dreaming?"

"Only tangentially."

She can't see it, but he's smiling.

 

* * *

 

After breakfast, he drives her into town.

While they walk in the direction of the ferry, Phillipa says, "You know, I was expecting this place to be more touristy. Or I thought maybe it'd be one of those tiny islands where millionaires go to retire in giant mansions."

"Disappointed?" he asks with a smirk.

"No, just wondering why you decided to live here. I mean, it's mainly a fishing community, right?"

"When you've been around as much as I have, you start to look beyond the obvious choices. Besides, the costs are reasonable."

He likes the added privacy, too. The island draws limited tourism and attention.

"And what do the locals think about some middle-aged British criminal moving in?"

"First of all, I'm a mostly-retired criminal. Secondly, they've warmed to me. I'm inobtrusive."

Once, after Eames moved there, Miguel confided that the locals were skeptical of him. But these days, the locals either ignore him or wave when they see him on the street.

He pays for two fares on the ferry. "If we're going to work together, I need to get something," he tells her.

It's been a couple months since he's been to the mainland. Once they disembark, he points out a nearby restaurant and tells Phillipa to meet him there in an hour and a half.

From there, it's not a far walk to the clinic, but he knows to expect a wait once he gets there. It's a legitimate place, and there are always patients waiting. When he arrives, there's an old man and a woman with a baby on her knee in the waiting room. A fan sits on an end table, helping cool the room.

He settles into the corner and reads a magazine in Spanish while he waits. He doesn't look up until a nurse tells him Dr. Vasquez can see him.

Dr. Vasquez is in her thirties. She's not a criminal, and though she helps him out, she never looks thrilled about it. She seems to see him as harmless enough.

Once in the examination room, Eames hands her some bills and she gives him a few vials of Somnacin.

"Much appreciated, as always."

She frowns. "Is there anything else, Mr. Eames? How is your leg?"

"Still attached to my hip," he says with a grin.

He knows if he asks, she'll write him a prescription for something. It's something he keeps in the back of his mind.

The exchange takes five minutes, but he had to wait for over an hour. Even so, he arrives at the restaurant early, and orders himself some coffee while he waits for Phillipa.

She shows up on the dot, pulling a rolling suitcase with one hand and carrying another bag on her shoulder. She's changed her clothes, and is wearing a pair of white jeans and a tank top.

"What's all this?" Eames asks, gesturing at the bags.

"I'm going to stay on the island. It'll be easier than taking the ferry all the time."

"And by 'stay on the island', do you happen to mean my place?"

"Are you inviting me?"

He raises an eyebrow and lets her come to her own conclusion.

An hour later, her bags are cluttering up Eames' living room.

 

* * *

 

"Can I ask you a question?"

"That's what you're here for, isn't it?" Eames focuses on the Somnacin he's measuring out.

"Why haven't you agreed to let me pay you for this?" She's lying on the chaise lounge with her arm over her forehead. "I think we should be clear on the terms."

"I don't need your money."

She shifts onto her side and studies him. "Then why are you doing this?"

It's not a bad question. Eames has never thought of himself as a teacher. He hesitates a moment before answering.

"Boredom," he says brightly. "It's amazing, how quickly retirement can dull your mind."

Phillipa watches while he unlocks the PASIV case and fiddles with the settings on machine.

"How about we go under for two minutes, to start?"

Phillipa frowns. "Just two minutes?"

Eames chuckles. "Remember, it's longer in the dream."

"I know."

She still sounds a little disappointed, and Eames has to admire her ambition.

"You like saying that, don't you?" he murmurs.

Once he has the needle ready, she holds out her arm. It's been a long time since Eames did this on an arm that wasn't his own. But his hand is steady.

Phillipa watches the needle go in with curiosity. She doesn't flinch. Her breathing quickens, but Eames can tell it isn't fear. He knows an adrenaline rush when he sees it.

He decides then that Phillipa will be a perfect fit for this. The dream sharing community isn't known for its restraint, and perhaps it's a field that attracts risk-takers. Eames used to think he was more cautious than most, but middle-age has brought the realization that he was mostly fooling himself.

When he's done helping her, he sits on the rug and attaches the other line to himself. Phillipa follows his movements with her eyes until he presses the button in the middle of the machine and lays his head down.

Then her eyes close, and his follow a moment later.

 

* * *

 

"So this is a dream?"

"You catch on fast."

"I don’t remember coming here. And I don't remember it being cold."

They both look around. They're in a city, walking on the pavement. Eames is wearing a tweed jacket and Phillipa is dressed in jeans and a turtleneck. She crosses her arms and shivers under the cold drizzle.

"It feels more real than I was expecting."

"That's rather the point. Of course, all dreams seem real when we have them, but this isn't even a natural dream, is it? The Somnacin makes things sharper."

"What is this place?"

He smiles and extends his arms. "This, my dear, is the place I grew up in. I dream it up now and then so I don't get homesick."

She looks at him, curious. "You miss it?"

"On the contrary. Bloody hated it. But I need a reminder now and then so I don't forget about that and feel nostalgic."

"So, for my first dream, you took me somewhere you hate? Are _you_ trying to discourage me, now?"

He clicks his tongue. "Quick and easy to build, that's all." They reach the street corner where Eames used hang out as a teen, looking for trouble and chances to practice picking pockets.

Everything is grey, and not just from the drizzle. The buildings are drab and crumbling, with beat-up awnings and dirty windows.

The truth is, he's made it uglier than it was.

Cobb would probably say not to build from memory, but Eames knows that memory is only dangerous when it's mistaken for fact.

"Is it true that if you die in a dream, you wake up?"

"You can usually count on it, yes."

She looks at him. "Have you ever...I don't know, tried it? Just to see what it's like?"

Eames chuckles. "Oh, yes."

Her breath hitches and he sees the flash of adrenaline again.

Oh, yes. Definitely a risk-taker.

"But," he says, hooking an arm in hers, "I think those experiments are best saved for another time."

They walk on in silence for a few minutes.

"Arthur said my dad's been in Limbo," Phillipa says. "Is it true? It sounded like he was trying to deter me, so I don't know what to believe."

"Oh, it's true."

She glances at him. "What about you? Have you seen it?"

"No. But from what I hear, it's the closest thing to infinity a person can experience."

When Eames wakes up, Phillipa's eyes are already open. She blinks and looks around the living room, as though she's getting her bearings. Eames tries to remind himself what it was like when he was new to dreaming. He recognizes her brief confusion as she readjusts to reality.

It passes after a moment, and she sits up. Without waiting for his help, she pulls the IV from her arm with a slight wince.

"Well?" he asks. "Did it meet your expectations?"

"I don't know, I guess. Next time, I want to design the dream."

He spends the rest of the afternoon teaching her about the PASIV. He unscrews the casing and points out and names each component for her. She leans close to him and looks over his shoulder, and her breath on his ear and the smell of her shampoo are uncomfortably pleasant.

 

* * *

 

"I saw you with that girl, the one who was looking for you about a week ago."

Miguel can barely contain his curiosity. He looks at Eames while he pours him a beer. When Eames doesn't say anything, Miguel says, "I heard she's staying with you." He hands Eames the beer.

Eames takes a drink and shrugs. "Word gets around."

"She's a little young for you."

"Mm. It isn't like that."

Miguel shakes his head and smiles. "Sure it isn't."

Something in his tone tells Eames he won't be able to convince him. So he doesn't try.

 

* * *

 

Phillipa likes going out on his boat with him. She puts on her bikini—a garish pink thing—and lies on the deck, reading a book or just watching him or the water.

"You know," Eames tells her one day, raising his voice above the splash of the waves, "people are starting to talk about us. They believe there's something improper about our little living arrangement."

She looks up from her book and uses her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

"Is that a problem?" she asks, nonchalantly.

"You tell me."

He doesn't care much, himself, but he wants Phillipa to know how it looks. He isn't sure if she's cautious enough to consider the implications unless he points them out.

But Phillipa just shrugs. The wind has turned the pages of her book, and she starts to try to find her place again.

"I'm used to people talking about me," Phillipa says. "People think what they think. You can't change their minds."

"You're right, of course. You're wise beyond your years."

She looks away from her book and stares absently at the water. "I remember when my dad was away for a couple years, back when I was a kid. I knew it was because of my mom, but nobody told me anything. When he came back, everyone acted so weird about it. My teachers would ask me how I was doing, how things were at home, things like that. I didn't get it. I figured it out when I was older. No one ever told me he was charged with killing her."

Eames listens silently. For a couple minutes, there's no sound but the water splashing against the hull of the boat and the squawking of the gulls that swoop overhead.

Then Phillipa asks, "You knew my dad. Do you think he killed her?"

"You know he was cleared of the charges."

Phillipa shoots him a look like she knows he's misdirecting her, and he shifts uncomfortably.

"No," he tells her. "I'm sorry, love, but your mother killed herself. You already know that."

She turns back to the water. "Yeah, but you can be responsible for stuff even if you didn't do it, can't you? I mean, I've done all sorts of messed up stuff, but people always figure it's because I had a fucked up childhood." She smiles. "But then, my brother's doing great. He's got a girlfriend, and he's going to school in the fall on a football scholarship. But nobody goes on about what a great childhood _he_ must've had. Nobody ever considers that I'm just a fucked up person. People let me get by with all sorts of things when they learn about my dad."

"What sort of things have you done?" he asks, curious.

She ignores the question, and turns further away from him. Looking at the water, and then at the shore, she says, "Do you think I could swim back to the beach from here?"

"Don't," he says warningly. "It's too far."

"I could swim it. I was on the swim team in high school."

"This isn't a swimming pool. Save the stunts for the dream."

The muscles in her legs twitch like she wants to jump into the water. But instead, she stretches out and flips through her book.

 

* * *

 

That night, it's full moon. The light filters through the cracks in the curtains, and when the sound of the door creaking open wakes him, he can see her standing in the doorway, wearing her terrycloth robe.

What is it?" he asks groggily.

"Do you think I'm attractive?"

He grits his teeth. "You know there's no good answer to that, love."

"Why not?"

He isn't sure. They're both adults, and Eames has treated her like one thus far. He's aiding her in doing stupider, more dangerous things than this.

She's young enough to be his daughter, but Eames doesn't _have_ a daughter. He doesn't have a paternal bone in his body, so it seems silly to think of her in those terms.

Still, he figures he's supposed to discourage this.

"It'll only complicate things," he says. "I thought you wanted a teacher."

She laughs and unties her robe. "It's already complicated. Besides, you said people are talking."

"And we should listen to them?"

Phillipa reaches into a pocket on her robe and pulls out a condom. She tosses it on the bed, and then drops her robe to the floor. He looks at her nakedness because he thinks it would be worse to look away.

He moves to the side of the bed, making space for her to climb in beside him. She does, and her body is warm as she curls up close to him. She nuzzles her cheek against the stubble on his chin.

"I think if people believe something enough," she says, "it's probably true."

He wants to tell her she's naïve, but he isn't sure if it'd be true. Instead, he kisses her. He wraps her up in his arms and realizes how long it's been since he's held someone like this. It hasn't felt like a long time until now.

"You don't have to worry about me," Phillipa whispers in his ear. "I've done this plenty of times."

She rolls him onto his back and climbs on top of him. Her hair falls over her shoulders, obscuring her face.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up with her curled next to him with her head on his shoulder. Her hair tickles his nose and he jerks his head. Realizing he's awake, she lifts her head to look at him and smiles.

"Hi."

"Mm."

She traces a finger along his chest and up toward his shoulder. "You have a lot of scars."

"I collect them, as a matter of fact."

"I have a bunch on my knees from when I was a kid. And here—" she brushes her hair out of her face and points to her forehead. "Here is from when I got in a car accident. You can't see it much anymore, but I had to get stitches."

She runs her hand down Eames' leg and touches his knee gently, as though she's worried about hurting him.

"What happened to your leg?" she asks.

"I pissed some people off, and got shot. Multiple times, actually."

She looks concerned, and he places a hand on her cheek. "Don't feel bad," he says, "It was bound to happen eventually. The leg's the only thing that didn't heal right."

He gently pushes her aside and sits up with a grunt. He gets out of bed and reaches for a pair of shorts. She stays naked on top of the covers, not bothering to cover herself up.

"How would you like to design a dream today?" he asks.

 

* * *

 

Phillipa's dream is a train. They're sitting in a compartment by themselves, and Phillipa watches the landscape whip past the window. It's all green hills and trees, the sort of landscape Eames associates with model train sets. The evening sun peeks out from behind the hills.

"Why a train?" he asks.

Phillipa shrugs. "I've always liked them. But my dad would never let us go on one when we were kids."

She stands up and moves so she's sitting beside him. She smells like jasmine. Slowly, she puts a hand between his legs.

"I've always wondered what it'd be like to have sex in public."

"I've done it," Eames says. "It's not as fun as it sounds."

"Well, anything can be better in a dream. Dreams can feel more real than real life."

He can't argue with that.

 

* * *

 

A month passes. She sleeps in his bed every night, and Eames tells himself it's really because he doesn't have a guest room and doesn't want her to have to sleep on the chaise. He tells himself the sex is mostly incidental, and that he hasn't come to crave the feeling of sleeping with someone in his arms.

He takes her to town sometimes, to Miguel's bar. She's old enough to drink here, but Miguel doesn't ask for ID when Eames buys her beer, anyway. Eames ignores his curious looks, but Phillipa soaks them up, looking almost excited.

He takes her to the mainland, to Dr. Vasquez's clinic. He lets her watch while he buys the Somnacin, and on the way home, he explains how medical-grade Somnacin, while the hardest to come by illegally, is the safest and easiest to use.

It's also the gentlest, least experimental form of the compounds, but he doesn't tell her that. She'll just think he's treating her with kid gloves, and playing it too safe.

He teaches her how to set up the PASIV, and doesn't wince while she practices pushing the needle into his vein.

 

* * *

 

He hasn't heard from Arthur, and that makes him nervous. He half expects Arthur to make good on his promise to come out there, and he finally decides to call again.

This time, Arthur doesn't even greet him. He answers the phone with a petulant "What now?"

"I thought you'd appreciate an update."

"Is she still there?"

"Yes. Still here."

For a moment, Arthur doesn't say anything. Eames only knows he's still there from the sound of his breathing.

"I'm beyond caring what she decides to do," Arthurs says, finally. He doesn't sound that convincing.

"However?"

" _However_ , you don't know her. Phillipa's had a rough time. She's given us a rough time, too." He pauses and seems to search for the words. "There's a lot I don't know. I know she caused Cobb a lot of grief when she was younger. She shoplifted."

"Her and a lot of kids. I was the same way, you know. I did a lot of stupid things before I grew up."

"Yeah, well, last year she stole Cobb's car and wrecked it."

That gives Eames pause. "On purpose?"

"Who the hell knows? Wouldn't surprise me if she did it to spite her dad. Look, Eames, there's a good reason why she was staying with me. She was living with Cobb while school was out and there were major problems between them. Waiting until she could go back to the dorm wasn't a possibility."

Eames chews on the inside of his cheek. "And you're telling me this because...?"

"You need to know the situation."

"Yes, I'm sure this is all concern on your part. Thank you, Arthur."

"What? You think I _want_ to air that family's dirty laundry? Look, like I said, I'm not getting involved in her decisions anymore. Just tell her she's welcome to come back anytime."

 

* * *

 

Not long after that, he comes home from a grocery run and finds Phillipa in his office. She's taken his lockbox out of a drawer and put in the desk, and she's leaning over it with a lock pick when he comes in. He'd walked to town, so there was no noise from the jeep pulling up to alert her.

She looks up when she hears him. They lock eyes for a minute, both waiting for the other to speak. Phillipa looks nervous at first, but then it melts away into smoldering defiance, as though she's daring him to kick her out or hurt her over this.

"There's nothing valuable in there," he says, his voice cold. "Just some forgery supplies. I keep my valuables better-hidden."

Still staring at him, she pulls the lock pick out of the lock and slips it into her pocket. She stands up straight and doesn't move her eyes from his.

"You know," Eames continues, "I find your dishonesty and kleptomania charming, but they're going to get you in trouble someday. You want to learn from me?" He gestures at his bad leg. "I'm living proof."

He turns away and lets her see herself out of the office.

They don't talk until dinner.

"Arthur told me about the money you took," Eames says. "I'm not under any illusions."

Phillipa cuts up her chicken breast with short, angry strokes of the knife. "It wasn't just money. That's just what he knows about. You know that book I was reading yesterday, about the Aztecs? I took that from his bookshelf."

"Phillipa—"

"What?" she asks, looking up. "You're the one who called me a klepto. Don't act scandalized."

"I told you. I don't have any illusions."

They don't talk for the rest of the night, but she joins him in bed later, anyway. She sidles up to him, and it's a little like an apology.

He kisses her on the head. "You're a smart girl," he tells her. "I just want you to use your head, that's all."

She shifts uncomfortable and stares up at the ceiling. "I don't know why I do stuff, sometimes. I can't help it."

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Eames is lying on the bed, resting his leg and reading Arthur's Aztec book. Phillipa is sitting on the floor, trying to repair a beaded necklace of hers that broke earlier. She has most of the beads collected in a plastic cup, but she keeps spotting more under the bed and nightstand, and sprawls out to get them.

While she strings some of the beads, she says, "I'm sorry. About the other day."

"I know."

For a few minutes, she strings beads in silence. Eames returns his attention to the book.

"Sometimes I think I'm a sociopath," she says.

She waits for Eames to react, but he doesn't. Sometimes she says things like this in a tone that suggests she wants a reaction. It's a game he doesn't give her the pleasure of winning.

"Don't you want to know why?" she asks, finally.

He murmurs.

"I never feel like I'm supposed to. I do these things, and they don't feel wrong at all until I think about them. And then I feel bad, because something must be wrong with _me_." She notices another bead by her foot and picks it up, tossing it in the cup with a clink.

"That's called a conscience, Phillipa."

"But it's not just that, you know? Sometimes I think about my mom. I wonder if she was scared before she died. When I was in that car accident last year, I wasn't scared at all. My dad was freaking out, and I thought he was just mad because it was his car. But he kept talking about how I could've been killed. It didn't feel like that big of a deal."

He looks at her and frowns. "Do you always feel that way?"

She seems to think about that for a moment. "Not here. Not so much."

"You're a lot like me," he says, and she smiles a little even though he's not sure it's a compliment.

 

* * *

 

"I want you to," she says. "I want to know what it feels like."

The gun is heavy in Eames' hand. "You sure you don't want me to just tell you? It'd be easier."

She gives him a small smile. "It's all right. It's not real. I'll just wake up. You said so yourself."

They're in a dream, standing in a warehouse. Phillipa is standing against a wall, her pupils dilated and her breathing quick.

He raises the gun to her head. Ten years ago, he'd do this without hesitation. But having been shot in reality, the idea of doing this to her makes him queasy.

Seeing his hesitation, she says, "You were telling me just the other day how you can do anything in a dream."

"It'll still hurt, love. It'll hurt a lot."

His finger twitches on the trigger, and he lowers the gun. His skin is clammy against the metal. "C'mon, let's forget about this."

Her eyes flash in annoyance. As he starts to walk away, she rushes to follow. "What? But I wanted to see what it feels like!"

"Well, I don't want to play this game," he says. He stalks off.

 

* * *

 

She's supposed to go back to school mid-August. When he tries to ask her about it, she shrugs him off.

"You'll be a lot more valuable in the field if you have your degree," he tells her, even though he's not sure that's true. Extractors don't check credentials much.

Phillipa is getting good at building dreams. Since she reminds Eames so much of himself, he wonders if she might be able to forge, too. He thinks about introducing that into their lessons. But that would require her to stay for months longer. He doesn't trust himself—he thinks keeping her there might be his motivation. It's hard to imagine going back to how things were. He's done fine without a companion for years, but now that he's had one, he'll miss the company.

A few weeks before the semester is supposed to start, Phillipa tells him, while sitting on the beach at dusk, that she's going to stay.

"I really like you," she says. "I don't want to leave." Then she kisses him.

He thinks she _does_ care about him, though he doesn't trust her any more than he trusts himself. They're a good fit for each other; Eames knows he could never be with anyone honest.

That night, he gets up after she falls asleep in his bed and does two things. First, he completes the fake passport he's been making for her. It'll let her go anywhere. No one can make her stay where she doesn't want to be.

Then he orders her a plane ticket for Seattle.

 

* * *

 

When he gives her the plane ticket, she storms out of the house. She throws it on the ground and stands by the clothesline out back. She turns her back on Eames and the house and balls her hands into fists.

Eames follows and picks the ticket up out of the dirt.

"Phillipa, love—"

"Don't!" she snaps. "Why are you doing this? I thought you respected me!"

"I do."

She spins around. Her eyes brim with tears.

"Then why are you trying to make me go back? I want to stay. I thought we could work together."

"Look around," he says calmly, gesturing to their surroundings. "I'm retired. This isn't a young person's life."

She crouches down and picks up a handful of dirt. She flings it at his white shirt.

"Don't tell me what kind of life I want!"

He grabs her hand and squeezes it. "You asked me once what Limbo is like. Do you remember that?"

She nods, confused.

"This is what Limbo is fucking like!" he spits out, gripping her hand. "I wake up. I buy groceries. I go to the bar. I go out on the boat. I paint. I forge fucking _passports_. And then I do it all again, every day. Do you know why?"

She yanks her hand away and shakes her head.

"Because I've burned too many fucking bridges!" He knows he's yelling, now, but he doesn't stop. "I was your age— _your age_ —when I left England. I thought, 'Who cares if it's not safe for me there anymore? I've got the whole world in front of me.' And now—" He laughs bitterly. "This is what I have left. Why the hell would I wish it on you?"

"Oh, yeah? I've burned bridges, too!" Tears run down her cheeks and she shakes. "I can't go home! Arthur was going to find out what I did, and I had to leave."

It's starting to rain. Large drops fall on Eames' head, soaking through to the scalp. He can't tell anymore how much of the wetness on Phillipa's face is tears. He slips the plane ticket in his pocket to keep it dry.

"What? What was Arthur going to find out about? The money?"

She shakes her head with a sob.

"No. I messed things up so bad. I can't—"

"What? What happened?"

She closes her eyes and presses a hand against her face.

"My dad and I got in a fight and I was so upset. I called Arthur because I wanted to go stay with him, but he didn't want to get involved, so I told him my dad hit me. I said I was scared because he had a gun. I swear, it didn’t feel like a lie. I wasn't trying to hurt anyone."

She starts to cough and choke on her own tears. Eames tries to pull her into a hug, but she slumps into a heap on the ground.

"C'mon," he says softly. "You'll get wet."

She doesn't move, and after a minute, after the rain has soaked through his hair and clothes, he reluctantly leaves her. He puts the damp plane ticket on the table and paces the kitchen for a minute. His shoes are waterlogged and squeak, and he kicks them off with a grunt.

From inside, Phillipa looks wretched. For the first time, Eames sees her as fragile and it disturbs him. She's still curled up on ground. Eames steps away from the window and gets a blanket from the closet. Then he ventures back outside, barefoot, and drapes it over her.

This time, she lets him help her up and guide her into the house. Her legs and skirt are covered in mud and her hair is wet and stringy.

He helps her get into a hot shower, and then settles her down in front of the portable heater. He makes them each a cup of tea.

"Do you think I'm a bad person?" she asks. Her voice is still shaky, but she's calmer now.

"No," he says softly. "I don't believe anyone will think that."

"Sometimes," she says, looking into her cup, "I feel like I don't know what the truth is. I hear these rumors, and I think they must be real. But my dad is a good man. He's been good to me. And I don't really think he killed my mom."

Eames swallows and runs and hand through is damp hair.

"From what I've heard, he was responsible for it, anyway."

Phillipa looks at him. Her face has regained its usual impassivity.

"Why would you tell me that, if you want me to go home?"

"Because," he says, "your dad went home. And he had a damn good reason to run. You're lucky. You're young; you haven't done anything you can't fix. You haven't killed anyone. Remember that."

"I'm still going to use the PASIV," she says. "One way or another. I want it."

"'Course. And you'll be smarter than me and your dad about it."

She drinks the rest of her tea and sets the mug on the floor. "I'll still miss you."

He smiles. "I'm not going anywhere. Come back the next holiday you get, and I'll teach you how to forge. We'll have a great time again, like we've had."

But he doesn't know if he should expect her back. Now that he's cut her loose, he imagines she'll meet other people, and love other people. There isn't much he can teach her that she can't learn elsewhere. Hell, he taught himself how to forge, so maybe she'll learn on her own, too.

He thinks about having sex with her one last time, because he suspects it could be the last chance. But she's so tired that she falls asleep almost as soon as they go to bed. She looks very fragile again, and for once Eames is hesitant to touch her, even though he knows she won't break. Finally, he drapes an arm lightly over her shoulders before drifting off to sleep, himself.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, she's gone.

There's a note on her side of the bed that says _I'm sorry. I really hate goodbyes. Love, Phillipa_. Her flight isn't for another couple days, but Eames understands.

Her things are all gone, including passport he made of her.

Later, he goes into the office and finds his lockbox sitting open on the desk. Nothing is missing, but there's another scrap of paper sitting inside, this one with nothing but a smiley face drawn on it.

Without her, his day feels purposeless. He hadn't realized how much time teaching her and keeping her company took up.

He paints for a while, before he loses interest. Then he sits down at his desk and starts to write a letter to Phillipa. There's nothing to say yet—she's only been gone for a few hours—but he describes the way the ocean looks from the view from the office window. In the corner of the paper, he draws a sketch of the gull that's sitting outside on one of the posts for his clothesline.

He addresses the envelope to Arthur's place. He imagines she'll get it eventually.

Then he puts on his shoes and gets in the jeep. He'll get Miguel to mail the letter for him. Then, maybe he'll stick around to talk for a while.  



End file.
